A Period of Grace
by This Is Da Vinci Speaking
Summary: Warning: Slash. What happens when James Barrie meets a very unlikely person? Crossover FNxGASP!Mystery. [Insert Evil Laugh Here] CHAP. 16 FINALLY UP!
1. Prologue

James Barrie couldn't help but gape at the man standing before him, clad in what seemed to be a spoof on an outfit he himself was wearing. The man—who was standing, as James was sitting on the ground and writing something in his notebook—beamed down at him, apparently very happy to be standing before him. James found himself staring at the blinding whiteness of this other man's teeth, and the dark blue, borderline-violet eyes nearly shadowed by a large top hat.

Suddenly mesmerized by the daring plum red of the stranger's tailcoat, James cleared his throat. "You…are annoying me." He seemed to have realized what he had just said, and he looked up at the man with a startled, apologetic expression. "Excuse me," he stammered, flushing at his bluntness. "That was quite rude of me—"

"You're James Matthew Barrie, ain't ya?" the stranger interrupted in an all-too-cheery voice. He tapped a long, colorful cane on the ground before him, and James realized that he was wearing a pair of violently purple, rubbery gloves.

"Ay," James said slowly. He slowly raised an eyebrow. This stranger was suddenly giving him an interesting urge to write a story on him. He lifted his pen slowly, still gazing at the man before him, not exactly doing anything with the pen, yet holding it up all the same.

The stranger held out a rubber-clad hand, still grinning. "My name's Wonka. Willy Wonka, really."

James took the hand and shook it. He blinked several times to regain his composure. "Willy Wonka, weal—er—Willy, Wrean—ay, shite…pardon my language…."

Was James M. Barrie…_flustered_?

"Not a problem. I've read a few of your works, and I must say, you're mighty smart up there, Mr. Barrie!" Wonka piped, tapping the side of James's head gently.

James stammered. "Have a seat, please, Mr. Wonka."

Wonka looked at the ground, his top lip slightly curling at the thought of sitting on the dirty, icky, germy grass…he swallowed and rolled his shoulders back, giving James a nervous smile. He finally sucked it up and sat down daintily in front of the famed writer. He sat down cross-legged, resting his cane on the ground beside himself. He did the same with his top hat. He looked around the park and smiled again. "It's pretty."

James…was still staring at Wonka. "You're…."

But he just shut his mouth.


	2. Crossing the Border

"What brings you around these parts, Mr. Wonka?" James asked, walking along a wide path set between two flowering rows of trees. Wonka was at his side, admiring the beauty of the park that James found himself walking through at least once every day.

Wonka stopped gazing around for a second to look at James, then looked back at whatever it was that he was looking at. "Well, I was meandering along," he sighed dramatically, "looking at the sky and thinking about everything, when all of a sudden I came by you. Happy coincidence?"

James raised an eyebrow and grinned, his hands in his pockets. "Aye, that it may be."

Wonka cleared his throat, adjusting his top hat. "Please excuse me," he said quietly and almost regretfully. "Sometimes I don't make any…sense. Although, if I _made_ any sense, I wouldn't be so gosh-darn creative, would I? Oh, I think that was a bit arrogant of me…I tend to make arrogant remarks when I'm excited like this—"

"What, exactly, is there to be excited about, Mr. Wonka?"

Wonka stopped in his tracks, very startled at this question. James walked on a few more steps, seemed to realize Wonka was no longer with him, and turned to face the other man. He frowned.

"Did I say something wrong?" James asked, seeing that Wonka was looking at the ground, his face obscured by the brim of the top hat. He was fidgeting with his cane, and he suddenly jumped.

"I dropped something!"

There was a brief silence as Wonka stooped down to pick up—absolutely nothing. He pinched the air, pretending he had _actually_ picked up something, then stood up, grinning brightly at James. He tilted his head to the right. "Found it!" He put the Invisible Nothing in his pocket and took a few steps to join James's side again.

Just as James was thinking (hypocritically, he recognized) that Wonka was an overgrown child, an _actual_ child ran up to James, shouting his name.

"Mr. Barrie! Mr. _Barrie_!"

There was a flash of grey, and James was almost knocked off his feet by a giggling little boy who had thrown himself around the older man's waist in a giant hug.

"Well!" James grunted. "Hello to you too, Peter."

The boy—apparently Peter—let James go and smiled cheerfully up at him. When James knelt down to be eye-level with him, Peter said, "George read one of my plays and said I should show it to you." He looked up to see the other man, and his smile faltered a tiny bit. "Who's that?" he whispered.

James smiled and stood up. "Peter, this is Mr. Wonka. Mr. Wonka, this is…Peter…."

Wonka was staring at the boy, his jaw hanging in astonishment. He tilted his head to the right again, his deep violet-blue eyes scanning Peter's face. "You look just like someone I know," he murmured, still gawking. He snapped out of it, reddening slightly. Then he grinned. "You should meet him. His name is Charlie."

Peter tried his best to be polite, but it _is_ rather hard to be polite around a stranger with this particular etiquette. Especially when the stranger has spectacularly perfect teeth. "Sir, I think I've had one or two nightmares about y—"

James laughed nervously and gently covered Peter's mouth with his hand. "Children have astounding imaginations."

Wonka nodded, still grinning. "That's true. You know, Charlie has an amazing thinker in his noggin…."

_Gauche, Wonka,_ James found himself thinking._ You are the most confusing man that has ever walked the face of the planet._

_I rather like that._

_

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**Oh...that was _very_ awkward to write...don't worry, it's going to get awkwarder. -.-' See?**


	3. Discovered Twice

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.

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"I can't thank you enough, Charlie!"

Charlie Bucket tilted his head to one side, frowning. He was face-to-face with Willy, who looked flustered, amazed, confused, and horrified at the same time. To any other person, this would seem like a feat, but to the people who knew Willy Wonka, this was completely normal. Willy was a man of _many_ emotions, let alone complex ones. It may have seemed that he had few emotions, but—as young Charlie recently found out—it was quite the opposite.

"What, exactly, did I do, Mr. Wonka?" he asked, looking directly into Willy's face, seeing if he could find out what happened just by searching his face.

Willy gained a giggly look. He looked around, making sure no one was listening, and then he said, in a low whisper, "I met someone." He held one hand up to his own mouth daintily, as if he had made a sly mistake.

Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "You _met_ someone? What does that—?"

"He's _very_ handsome, Charlie."

"Oh." Charlie's eyes widened. "You're _thanking_ me? I haven't even met—"

"Charlie…."

Charlie sighed. He was so confused, yet he understood everything. He, in fact, was the one that led Willy Wonka, the famous Candyman, out of the depths of the evil demon closet that he'd been hiding inside ever since he was Charlie's age. As much as he d to think that the chocolatier was what he was, Charlie was proud and glad that his mentor had finally found his way in life. It wouldn't have happened without…him.

"Mr. Wonka," Charlie said quietly. "What's his name?"

"James. Well, to you—if and when you do get around to meeting him—it's Mr. Barrie. Gosh, even _I_ still call him Mr. Barrie."

"When did you meet him?" _Blimey_, Charlie thought. _He's got a crush on an author…._

Willy sighed, looking as if he'd fall into another flashback. "This afternoon. He's very nice." He looked slowly into his younger friend's eyes. "I think I might like him, Charlie."

There was a recognizing silence. Charlie didn't just see excitement in Willy's eyes; he saw fear. Right away he knew there was something about Mr. Barrie that Willy was afraid of…something sacred; something that shouldn't be touched.

"It's okay, Mr. Wonka. I'll…I'll help you."

Willy squealed and stood up, throwing his hands in the air with joy and turning to walk away.

Charlie gazed after him sadly, suddenly regretting the very day he came across that blasted Golden Ticket….

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Peter Llewellyn-Davies stared at James, one eyebrow raised in question. The older man was just gazing into Peter's notebook, not really _reading_ the play he was supposed to read. He was just…staring at the page.

"Mr. Barrie…?"

James slowly—very slowly indeed—looked up at Peter. One look at the boy's face, and he swallowed. "I'm…I'm sorry, Peter. I can't…seem to concentrate…." When Peter sat down next to him at the dining room table, James carefully closed the book and sighed, resigning to his invasive thoughts.

There was a brief silence, only broken by the faint sound of Peter's brothers playing out in the backyard. They were in the vast African desert this time; George was a pharaoh with many servants and scribes. Jack and Michael were unfortunate travelers who were begging at the mighty pharaoh's feet for food and shelter.

The boys had asked Peter if he wanted to join them, but he said no. He wanted to show Mr. Barrie the play he had written.

Apparently, none of that was happening.

"Peter," James said quietly, not looking at the young boy who was swinging his legs back and forth under his seat. "I want to ask you something."

"Anything, Mr. Barrie."

James's brow furrowed with deep focus. He had been running this question over in his head the entire time he'd supposedly been reading Peter's draft; every time he'd switched words around or added words or even deleted words in his head, he was never satisfied with the question he was going to ask. Not even now, as he was so close to asking it, did he like the question. Yet he felt he could trust Peter with this; after all, he was trusted to take care of the boys after Sylvia—

"You remember…Mr. Wonka, right?"

Peter's legs stopped mid-swing. He looked up at James, not sure as to why he asked the question. It wasn't as if Mr. Wonka could easily be forgotten. "Of course."

Knowing that wasn't _the_ question, James inhaled deeply. Then he exhaled. "Well…does he…does he seem like the kind of person—" he looked at Peter "—who someone could be…_attracted_ to?"

Peter frowned thoughtfully. He picked up the pen from its place next to the abandoned notebook and tapped it lightly on the surface of the table. "I'm not sure. I suppose it depends on what women are drawn to…."

James violently shoved aside the fact that Peter was giving out romance advice and instead focused on the fact that _hello_—Peter didn't _know_ yet. He didn't _know_ that James had come out….

_Amazing_, James thought, rubbing his face with his hands, inwardly groaning. _Just…bloody amazing, Jimmy, you've forgotten to mention to the poor boy about your little difference_….

_Well_, he found himself retorting to his inner voice. _It's not as if I can say, "Peter, I'm gay," can I_?

"You're _what_, Mr. Barrie?"

Oh…shite.


	4. They Meet Again

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**By the way...don't think James Barrie isn't one of my favorite authors, because he is. Just clearing that up for someone.

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Willy found he couldn't get any sleep that night. As a matter of fact, he couldn't get himself out of his day clothes and into his nightclothes; he was so restless. He'd only just met Ja—Mr. Barrie, and yet he couldn't wait to see him again. The man was nice, he didn't lie there.

But something in the back of his mind told him that he _didn't_ want to see him again. Willy didn't like this thought…yet it was there. It was nagging him ruthlessly as he sat on the Swudge Grass in the Chocolate Field, staring at a point right next to the Bucket house. It was just…annoying…the heck out of him.

_Don't go there_, the voice teased. _You don't want him…he's not good for you_.

"Of course he is. You saw how nice he was this afternoon…."

_You don't know him, Willy._

"But I want to…I do."

"Mr. Wonka, dear, why on Earth are you talking to yourself at this time of night?"

Willy looked up, startled to find Mrs. Bucket standing in the front doorway. She was hugging herself; she appeared to have just woken up. Willy hoped _he_ hadn't woken her…he started to feel guilty.

His feelings showed, actually, according to the slight tremble his bottom lip took on as he watched Mrs. Bucket walk across the slight distance between them. She sat down beside him and, without warning, took him into her arms in an embrace only a mother could give. The minute they made contact, Willy couldn't hold the tears back any longer. He let them pour right out, as well as his thoughts, fears, and questions.

"I don't know what to do," Willy wailed into Mrs. Bucket's shoulder. "I met this man at the park…as I'm sure Charlie told you about…and I'm pretty sure I like him…but given I've only known him for less than three hours…I'm not sure if I like him…not only that…but I've got these voices…and they're telling me that I _don't_ like him…which is rubbish because I _do_ like him…and I'm so confused…what do _you_ think I should do?"

Mrs. Bucket sighed and gave the back of Willy's head a soft pat. "I think you should take a walk outside, dear," she said quietly. "The fresh air should help. Just…be careful, please. And don't stay out too late!"

Given that Willy was already on his way out of the factory before Mrs. Bucket even got a chance to finish her sentence, she had to shout the last part out.

She chuckled and went back into the Bucket house, very convinced that Wonka was a drama queen.

In…a matter of speaking.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The boys just gaped at James, standing on the stairs going from (by coincidence) tallest to shortest as the stairs declined. James was standing near the stairs, looking up at them with partial shame, partial exasperation. They'd been standing there for three minutes now, just silent.

"Well," James broke the silence in a near whisper, looking at the railing of the staircase. "I suppose since you four are all choosing to make me feel more uncomfortable than I already was…." He gave a nervous half-smile. "I'm going to go for a walk. If one of you is awake when I get back…." He grabbed his coat off the coat rack and sighed. "Just get to bed, boys."

When he heard eight footsteps slowly climbing up the rest of the stairs, James sighed again and looked around, patting his pockets. He couldn't feel his keys…where had he put them? He wasn't sure…he wasn't sure of anything anymore. He didn't expect the boys to react in the way they did to the Earth-shattering news…nor did he expect himself to say his thoughts _aloud_ when he "told" Peter. He'd been disoriented since Sylvia died, and meeting Mr. Wonka apparently made things worse where his common sense was concerned. Of course, two and a half hours isn't quite enough for a person to come to the conclusion that they're attracted to someone else…let alone thinking non-stop about said "someone else."

James's confusion was confirmed when he blinked, finding himself staring at the dining room table. There were his keys…and there was Peter's notebook.

James picked up both the keys and the notebook, then left the house.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It hadn't been very long before James ran headlong into someone. He was so immersed in Peter's play that he left his sense of reality behind and forgot to look up every once in a while to _avoid_ the situation he was currently in. The notebook went flying out of his hands, yet he wasn't knocked over. He just stood there, staring at his empty hands, and frowned.

"Terribly sorry," James said, looking up. "I wasn't paying attention to—"

The abrupt silence between Mr. Wonka and James was tremendous. They stood staring at each other, their jaws hung slightly open, both of them totally not expecting the encounter.

Several red flags went off in Willy's head, yet he ignored them all. _This is entirely too coincidental_, he thought. _What are the odds that I'd come out for a late night stroll and Mr. Barrie is walking at the exact same time and something smells like cinnamon_….

"Too close!" he suddenly shouted, jumping backwards in fright. He nearly tripped over his own cane, but James reacted quickly and grabbed Willy's arm before he fell over. The contact set off fire alarms in Willy's mind, and they kept going as James—still holding on to Willy—went to get the notebook back.

"I'm glad I ran into you…quite literally," James said, swinging back over to Willy. He nearly ran right into him again, but Willy stepped back.

"You are?" squeaked the frightened chocolatier.

James nodded. "Ay. I wanted you to read this. It's very good so far." He held out the notebook to Willy, who stared at it, at a loss. "Peter wrote it. You remember Peter?"

"Mr. Barrie, I don't know—"

"Let's take a walk."

Part of Willy wanted to walk as fast as his semi-crippled legs could carry him back to the factory where everything would be peaceful and he could just sleep and wake up the next morning not having to worry about anything. That same part of Willy wished he'd never even _met_ Mr. Barrie.

However, another part of him wanted to stay; it wanted to talk to Mr. Barrie. That same part of him was the part of him that told him to stay calm.

So he took a deep breath and followed Mr. Barrie.


	5. Enlightenment

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**Wow. Y'all gave me very inspiring reviews. Read _The Playwright_, people, I dare ye. ; )

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When James crept back into the house, it was already nearly two in the morning. He was suddenly glad the boys didn't have school the next morning; he wouldn't be able to get himself up in time to help get them ready. He was very convinced that he would get a pretty good amount of sleep, due to the fact that he was worn out from listening and talking. Listening to Mr. Wonka, and talking to Mr. Wonka.

Wonka was, indeed, an interesting man, as James learned. His father didn't really give him much respect as a child; he had a feeling, he told James, that it was because he missed his mother, who had died when Willy was only four.

He had also talked about his life as a chocolatier, going from hopes and dreams to a little shop on the corner to an enormous factory. He talked about Charlie, the little boy who'd won the entire factory and was Wonka's best friend.

When he asked James to talk, the other man was slightly startled. He'd been watching Wonka speak with intense interest, and when he stopped, James nearly urged him to continue. But apparently, it was his turn to have a word.

He talked about his parents and his several brothers; the one who'd died and the fact that his mother never really knew James was there. He recounted writing his first play and meeting Charles Frohman, his producer and good friend. When he approached the topic of the Llewellyn-Davies', he hesitated. The memories of Sylvia were a bit too hurtful to recall, yet he did anyway, pausing mid-sentence only once to regain his ability to speak.

When he did, Wonka had changed the subject and asked about Peter. James told him about Peter Pan, then talked about George, Michael, and Jack. He even talked about Neverland.

"Neverland," Willy had asked, genuinely curious. "What's that?"

"Oh," James murmured, leaning back on the bench they were sitting on in the park, which was shrouded by darkness. "It's a wonderful place, Mr. Wonka. Pirates and mermaids live there. Fairies. It's a place that thrives on wonderful imaginations and pure hearts. I go there every once in a while. You know…for space."

"Can I go there?"

James looked at Wonka's hands, which were resting on his Technicolor cane. He smiled faintly, letting the vapor his breath was creating in the cold night air vaguely obscure his vision. He looked back at Wonka's face. "Do you have a wonderful imagination and a pure heart, Mr. Wonka?"

"I might," he'd replied quietly, glancing at his own hands as well.

"Then I really don't see why not."

"What if I _don't_ have an imagination and a pure heart?"

James leaned forward and said carefully, "I don't think you have anything to worry about there; just by what you've told me, you have a pretty astounding imagination."

"A pure heart?"

James gave a half-grin. "Perhaps someday you'd like to prove that to me, ay?"

Wonka looked at him, not sure what James meant. James, however, chuckled and tapped the brim of Wonka's top hat, standing up and taking Peter's notebook with him back to his house.

The period of time between leaving Wonka and climbing into bed completely flew over James's head. It seemed like one minute he was walking away from Wonka, having been cheered up considerably; the next minute, he was staring up at his ceiling, imagining he was outside laying in the grass, staring up at the stars.

He also imagined he was with Willy Wonka….

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"I didn't mean to scare you, Charlie."

"There is absolutely no excuse for that, Mr. Wonka. I woke up, and the Oompa-Loompas said you weren't here. You…you had me worried!"

Willy rubbed his temple with his free hand and limped half-heartedly out of the Chocolate Field and towards the Glass Elevator. Charlie was at his heels, sounding a lot like his own mother at this point.

"Don't go out so late at night again, Mr. Wonka. I don't want to wake up to find you've gone missing—"

Willy stopped inside the Glass Elevator, then turned to face Charlie. "I saw Mr. Barrie."

Charlie stopped speaking and sighed through his nose. "How'd it go?"

Willy's features lit up, despite the fact that he was exhausted after falling asleep on the bench in the park. "We talked for a few hours." He looked at the ceiling of the Glass Elevator, motioning for Charlie to join him. When the boy got into the elevator, Willy looked down only to press a button labeled "Balm Room." Once the elevator took off, Willy just gazed at the ceiling again.

The two of them rode the elevator in silence, and Willy stared at the ceiling the entire time. When they got to their destination, Willy lifted his arms in exclamation.

"Ah, here we are!"

The fact that Charlie had never seen this room before startled him; he was sure he'd gotten a good look at every important room in the factory. Of course, there _were_ a few rooms Willy was hiding, but Charlie understood those were secret rooms. He knew that even though Willy trusted him greatly, it would still be some time before he was allowed access to these mysterious rooms.

Even so, this room didn't seem to have a reason to remain a secret, yet Charlie had no prior knowledge of it. It was an interesting room indeed; there were several pale yellow shelves with hundreds of tiny multi-colored tubes sitting on them. Charlie realized after looking around the room for a while that one side of the room started with red colored tubes, then they merged into various shades and hues of orange, then yellow, and so on until there were separate shelves for black, white, and grey. No two tubes were the exact same color.

"This is the Balm Room, Charlie," Willy said cheerfully, walking out of the elevator. "Do you know what all these little tubes are?"

Charlie shook his head, sidestepping an Oompa-Loompa who was carrying a light turquoise tube past him.

Willy stood up onto the rolling stepladder, grabbing a deep red tube from one of the topmost shelves. He examined it for a second, a bright smile on his face, then handed it carefully to Charlie, who frowned.

Charlie examined it, too, and comprehension dawned on him. "Lip Balm," Charlie murmured, looking up at Willy in amazement.

"That's right," the chocolatier said, carefully descending from the ladder and dusting off his overcoat. "Not only is it Lip Balm, but it has different flavors, and not only is it for your lips, but you can put it on foods and candy, too! Imagine, Charlie, a candy seasoning for candy!"

"This one's cherry," Charlie said, reading the label. "What other flavors do you have?"

"Well, there's pumpkin and pumpkin pie," Willy chimed, waving to a few orange-colored tubes. "And there's lemon, banana, and even butter."

Charlie laughed. "Butter?"

"I had to use _something_ for yellow…it could've gotten very ugly." He continued down the army of shelves. "Pecan, peach, pineapple, lime, pea, lettuce…."

"You have nearly every flavor," Charlie murmured, following Willy and gazing at the tubes of Lip Balm in astonishment.

Willy beamed again. "I do. But I need your help, Charlie. I'm not sure if I should add flavors or take some out." He took out a dark green tube and showed it to Charlie. "Broccoli?"

"Get rid of it."

Willy tossed it into a large box in the corner marked "Rejects." He pulled out two others: "How about blue raspberry and blueberry?"

"Sounds good to me."

This continued for a while, yet it stopped when Willy announced they would continue their "shenanigans" the next day.

"I was thinking of making a Barrie flavor," Willy said, breaking the silence that had once again reached the two of them on the elevator trip back to the Chocolate Field.

Charlie did a double-take. "A what?"

"A berry flavor," Willy repeated. "I don't think I have enough Barrie flavors. Which berry do you think I need?"

"Mr. Wonka," Charlie asked, watching outside of the elevator to take a guesstimate at how far away they were currently from the Bucket house. "Are you saying…Barrie, or…berry?"

Willy raised an eyebrow. "There's no difference between the two things you just said, dear boy." He tilted his head. "I said berry."

"As in…berry?"

"Yes."

"But…it sounded like you said Barrie."

"That's exactly what I said."

Charlie closed his eyes and shook his head briefly, then opened them and said, "Berry? As in the fruit? Or Barrie as in Mr. Barrie?"

There was a long silence, and Willy raised both of his eyebrows and flushed a deep pink. His mouth formed a small, surprised 'o' and he stared at Charlie, realizing his fault. "Why, that's just silly, Charlie," he said, grinning nervously. "You can't have a Mr. Barrie-flavored Balm." Yet again he blushed. "It wouldn't be…ethical. It's an…unethical thought, Charlie. Ethicality is…good. That's…unethical, which is…bad. Hurray for ethicality!"

Charlie stared at Willy, slightly amused at the disorder of his mentor, who'd chosen to fall very, _very_ silent the rest of the trip.

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**Ah, 'tis the ending of a very well-liked chapter by the authoress herself. Ha. I really do like this chapter. I put together the Balm Room very nicely, don't you agree. :P Oh, and...as you all probably found out, I know nothing about J. M. Barrie's brothers. Heh...**


	6. Never Been Kissed

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**I must say: XHeartofaDragonX, I love that you love that I love that you love to review!**

**Meredith A. Jones, I was not mocking you, and I was, indeed, demanding that people go read _The Playwright_. If my computer wasn't stupid, I'd review it from the story itself, but since it _is_, in fact, being stupid...that story is on my favorites list and I've yet to finish it so I can read the sequel! I love it!

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"Well, let's just say that one day, you're thinking up ideas for your candy, and all of a sudden, _bam_! Your ideas are gone. You've come to a thought block. What would you think?"

"I'd think the world was ending, Mr. Barrie."

James laughed and shook his head, finally looking up from his own writing to look at Wonka. "How many times do I have to request that you call me James, Mr. Wonka?"

Willy smiled nervously and fiddled with the purple pen in his hand. The two men were sitting in the park (on a blanket, much to Willy's gratitude), writing different things. Willy had been jotting down notes for potential inventions, and James had been writing short stories left and right. There had been a silence between the two for a while, but then Willy had asked randomly what it was like for an author to have a writer's block. But James was changing the subject.

"I've asked _you_ on a _number_ of occasions to call me Willy."

"Ask me a number and one."

"Can you please call me Willy?"

James tilted his head upwards, smiling. "Say _my_ name, first."

Willy hid his blushing cheeks with his notebook, pulling it off that he was exasperated. "Can you please call me Willy, _James_?"

"Ay, I might be able to do that, Willy."

Behind the notebook, Willy smiled brightly. After a while, though, he stopped noticeably smiling and lowered the book to write in it some more. The two had fallen silent again, but all of a sudden….

"I'm rather fond of you, Willy."

Willy froze, and his blood ran cold. He stared at the page in horror, hoping to the gods of chocolate that he had either hallucinated the sentence or heard someone else say it to another man named Willy. The silence following had been a pretty painful one.

"I'm not quite sure why," James continued, still writing in his notebook. Willy came to the conclusion that James was so engrossed with his writing that he didn't know what he was saying. "Maybe it's your constant quirkiness. Or perhaps your lack of concern about what people think of you."

Willy looked up at James, his brow furrowed. "What?"

James looked up at Willy in turn and smirked, putting his pen down on the blanket beside him, then closing the notebook and setting that down beside him as well. "I'm going to ask you a personal question, Willy."

Willy was rendered paralyzed, and his hands started shaking. The sirens in his head went off, much louder this time. Personal question…danger zone….

"Yeah?" Willy squeaked.

James leaned forward slightly, yet already he was dangerously close. He smirked and said in a low whisper, "Have you ever been kissed, Willy Wonka?"

Willy stared at James, his brain having shut down quite a bit at this point. He couldn't see anything but James; everything else—the park, the trees, and the people—had ebbed away into nothing. "C-can't say I have," he replied quietly, fully aware of the fact that James had an irresistible scent of cinnamon.

James, however, leaned back and smiled at Willy. "Isn't that a shame. I can imagine all the lasses would be all over you."

_Lasses_! thought Willy. _Does he really think I like women_?

James's smile faltered. "Of course, there is the possibility that wouldn't matter to you."

Willy was getting fidgety. He tapped his pen on the notepad in his lap with steadily increasing speed; his eyes roamed the ground for something—_anything_—that could rescue him from this. His subconscious had been telling him all along to stay away from James because there was something in him that could potentially hurt Willy. Right there, sitting on that blanket, crumbling under the pressure, Willy knew what that characteristic was.

"Oh!" Willy cried, standing up faster than one could say "Whangdoodle," and he barely had time to pick up his hat and cane before he piped, "I…I must go! It's getting late…."

James didn't watch him go; instead, he stared where Willy had previously been. That was the side of James that nobody but his ex-wife had _ever_ seen; the dominating side of him. James loathed that side; he wasn't a dominating type of person. He'd scared Willy off….

And he was scared, himself.

* * *

**Ooh, that chapter was rather short, wasn't it?**


	7. Expect the Unexpected

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**Ahh, yes, the chapter before the chapter with the aftermath of this chapter. Beautiful. Oh, by the way, I took one of Meredith A. Jones's ideas and flicked it into this chapter. Try and figure out which it is. ((cough))

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**

It wasn't as if Peter and Charlie had _never_ met; it was almost certain that because Willy and James had known each other for a month, now, the boys would have met. Of course, being it a random occasion when Willy ever brought Charlie with him to see James—James rarely brought any of his boys—they barely knew each other. The times when they did come with their older friends, they'd all do small plays together. Sometimes Charlie would sit out voluntarily and watch the Llewellyn-Davies's play, just to get the hang of it, or even just because he found it more fun to watch.

Naturally, through Peter (he'd become closer to Peter than any of the other boys), Charlie knew James. Charlie knew James so well at this point that he had no problem talking to him. James adored Charlie almost (not quite!) as much as he adored the other four boys, and he had no problem listening to him.

Therefore, Charlie asked James a question.

"What do you think of Mr. Wonka?"

James stared at Charlie, his eyes wide as saucers. "Charlie…." When he saw that the boy was serious, he sighed. "I'm…not sure."

Charlie didn't blink. Instead, he looked down the pathway at nothing in particular. "It's a little known fact," he said softly, "that Mr. Wonka prefers watching rehearsals than the actual plays themselves. He's seen a few Shakespeare rehearsals; by far, he enjoyed those more than the actual productions."

There was silence between Charlie and James, and the playwright frowned, listening to the laughter of George, Jack, Michael, and Peter some feet behind the bench he was sitting on. He didn't think in sentences for fear of saying them aloud again, and instead, he broke his thoughts into fragments.

_Quite random information_._ Point obscure_._ Distracted_._ Prefers rehearsals_….

_Prefers rehearsals_.

Charlie caught the dawning in James's expression, and he inwardly smiled. "He likes to know how things work. That's why he watches rehearsals."

"Lad," James said almost inaudibly, "you may be the smarter of the two people sitting on this very bench."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Charles Frohman—James M. Barrie's producer, best friend, and painfully honest critic—was actually at a complete loss for words later the night that Charlie lit a light in James's mind. The cigar in his mouth practically fell out as he tried to grasp exactly what James was asking him.

"Wait a second," Charles muttered, picking the cigar out from between his teeth and frowning at the floor. "Are you asking me if you can actually _bring_ a man with you to this rehearsal?"

"Well, no," James confessed. "All of them, really."

"All of who?"

"All of the rehearsals, Charles," James corrected. "You see, I've been trying to…well, to put it simply, I'm…."

Charles looked up, scratching the beard that his face was starting to outgrow. "If you're about to tell me that you prefer gentlemen to ladies, I'm about to tell you that this comes as much as a surprise to me as the news of _Peter Pan_ becoming a huge hit did to you."

James lifted an eyebrow, walking with Charles to the front of the theater he rehearsed and sometimes performed his plays in. "Actually, it was quite a surprise, if that was your intention with the analogy."

Charles blinked in mock astonishment. "You're gay?"

James grinned and playfully nudged Charles, who laughed in turn. James sat in a seat in the second row, Charles sitting a seat behind him. The playwright turned to face his friend, his brow furrowed. "How did you find out?"

Charles took a puff from his cigar and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "Only logical explanation for your wife leaving you."

"But Sylvia—"

"But nothing, kid. I'm not dense, Jim, when I first met you, you were flirting all over the place. It was actually rather comical because you're short as hell."

James bit his lip and looked to the left of Charles, frowning.

"It's okay; you can bring the man with you. I don't mind criticizing another human being besides you."

"You're too kind, Charles," said James sarcastically, turning back to face the stage.

"Love you too, Jim."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"JAMES!"

James blushed furiously, staring as Willy jumped behind a tree, trying (idiotically) to hide from the man whose name he'd just screamed. He wasn't embarrassed from the outburst itself; rather, he was embarrassed because he'd been standing next to Willy for exactly fifteen minutes before letting his presence be known. Obviously this startled Willy.

"Sorry," James murmured before clearing his throat. He, too, had a cane, not for medical reasons, but because he never went anywhere besides the park and his house without it. He currently swung it at his side, keeping the other hand behind his back. "I wanted to ask you something."

Willy peered around the tree, his top hat and bizarre sunglasses the only visible things at the moment. "Yes?"

"Come out from there, I want to ask you something without the tree being in the way."

Willy shuffled out from around the tree, staring at James. After a moment, he flashed a brilliant smile. "Hi!"

"Hi," James said back. He cleared his throat again, trying hard to mask the effect Willy's smile had on him. "Er…do you like plays?"

Willy eyed him warily, which, to James, only seemed like he was staring bluntly at him due to the fact that his eyes were, undeniably, hidden. "I do," he said, smiling again. "I'd rather see how they're done, first."

"Great," James said, genuinely smirking and leaning on his cane. "Would you like to come see one of my rehearsals?"

Willy's smile fell right off his face and crashed onto the ground. He swallowed, fidgeting again. He _loved_ rehearsals…he couldn't turn one down…but why would he want to? This is the man he had inexplicably fallen in love with—why would he possibly want to turn down an opportunity to spend time with him?

"Sure."

Sometimes, Willy Wonka made absolutely no sense.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

James kissed the Llewellyn-Davies children on the forehead, making sure he tucked them in before doing so. He was feeling especially giddy tonight, and he had every reason and right to be.

When he got to Peter, the boy smiled. "Good luck on your date, Mr. Barrie."

James rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure you can quite call it that yet, Peter."

The young boy just grinned and closed his eyes as James closed the door, his hands shaking only slightly.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Your shoes are a bit scuffed..."

"Never mind that, Charlie, I've got to go. I'm supposed to meet James in exactly—" Willy looked at the twisted clock in the Bucket house. "—ten minutes."

Charlie raised his eyebrows. "It's a good thing we're not that far from the theater then, isn't it?"

Willy tilted his head, surprised at this "new" Charlie Bucket. But he had no time to ponder this revelation, so he turned, grabbed his hat, goggles, and cane, and quickly walked out the door, the Buckets calling after him:

"Good luck, Willy, dear!"

"See you later, Mr. Wonka!"

"Have fun!"

"Good-bye!"

"Take care!"

"Don't have too _much_ fun!"

"Socks are funny things, aren't they?"

* * *

**I'm only happy with one part of the next chapter, unfortunately...I feel this story is lacking the drama it was categorized under, so...I'm trying to shove it in here...not exactly satisfying me...**

**Oh...that sounded _so_ wrong...**


	8. Renaissance

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**I like italics, commas, and semicolons. A lot. A _lot_. See; I rest my case.

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**

Willy walked in through the door of the theater, looking around. His hands squeaked as he fiddled with the top of the cane nervously. He bit his lip, spotting James in a seat almost literally right next to where he stood.

"I don't usually sit this far back," James explained, still watching the stage, his arms folded on top of the seat in front of him, and his head resting on them. "I sit usually a few rows down. For some reason I don't feel quite comfortable down in those seats tonight…." He finally looked at Willy and smiled at the fact that he was wearing those silly goggles. "Is the moon that bright this evening?"

Willy laughed, then silently reprimanded himself for being so gosh-darned nervous.

"Don't just stand there, Willy, have a seat, for Christ's sake!"

Willy took a deep breath and sat down to James's right, having calmed down considerably as he walked through the other seats. He didn't feel so tense looking at the stage; he felt more at home.

"It _is_ a lovely evening though, isn't it?" asked Willy, taking his top hat off but leaving the sunglasses on. James nodded when Willy sat back up from setting the hat on the floor in front of him. "I almost didn't want to come inside." He laughed that single, anxious laugh again.

James smiled and looked back at the stage, where Charles was standing, reading a pamphlet of some sort. He was leaning towards stage right, yet he was a tad bit center-stage. He did not look up at the two men sitting in the back, yet he knew they were there. This was all part of his little plan. Reading the pamphlet—which was absolutely blank—he grinned to himself. James didn't know it, but Charles had quite a romantic set-up ready for the two.

"It's because I love you, Jim," he muttered amusedly to himself, shaking his head and staring at the blank pages. "It's because I love you."

It _was_ slightly awkward, because James had sort of been like a younger brother to Charles, so setting up something _romantic_ for his _little brother_ was just weird.

"Charles," James called from the back of the theater. "What's that you're reading?"

"It's new. It's called _The Contemplation of the Life of Charles Frohman_. Ever heard it, James?"

"Can't say I have, Charles. Sounds interesting, however; I _must_ read it someday. Perhaps I could write a play on it? Maybe cast the Grim Reaper as Charles Frohman, you silly old man?"

Charles laughed, shaking his head, and exited stage right.

James looked around at Willy, smiling. "Charles and I have an excellent relationship."

"I can see that."

An hour of the cast rehearsing went by; Willy asked lots of questions (there wasn't really a set theme to his questions), as James predicted he might. James was happy to answer any of his questions, and every once in a while, he would throw in a fake answer just to make Willy laugh. However, every now and then, Willy would actually believe the answer, and ask for confirmation. James would laugh, then tell him the truth.

"Why do you suppose the sky is blue, James?"

"Well," James said, exaggerating his own Scottish accent to make the answer more interesting. "I reckon that the sky _used_ to be a weird, greenish-yellow color, but the Great People in the Sky decided that that color was starting to get a wee boring. So they went to the nearest shop and bought themselves hundreds of thousands of pails of blue paint, and they _threw_ the paint—" he made a flamboyant gesture of tossing a pail of paint, "—into the air, and made the sky so blue." He looked at Willy. "That's also how they created rain, because the wet paint dripped down from the sky."

Willy stared. "Really?"

"I believe it."

There was a thoughtful expression on Willy's face—given he still had his goggles on his face; it was _believed_ that there was a thoughtful expression on his face. The lights in the theater had been shut off during the rehearsals, too, so James really had no clue as to what expression Willy had. His eyes really hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet because he had looked at the brightly lit stage the entire time he gave his explanation for why the sky was blue.

There was a short silence between the two men.

"James?"

"Yeah, Willy?"

"I'm not exactly sure…how to say this, but…but…." He paused. "I don't have the right words, see…." _Ah, precious cue cards, where art thou!_ "Um…."

Suddenly, Willy felt his goggles slowly and carefully being pulled off his face; he looked right into James's eyes and stopped breathing.

"I…."

"Whatever it is you have to say," James whispered, "I want you to say it while looking at me."

The sirens that had gone off in Willy's head the day James had distractedly mentioned being fond of him had never exactly stopped going. They'd never been too loud since then, nor had they been so soft they were barely audible. They were definitely there. But now, as Willy slightly narrowed his eyes, staring right into James's dark brown ones—which he could see, because his eyes were already adjusted to the darkness—the sirens went silent. One word echoed hauntingly in his mind:

_Found_.

Before it was even _occurring_ to James; before any of the two men even _realized_ the stage had cleared off completely; before the both of them noticed that time had seemingly _stopped_, Willy leaned forward and pressed his lips to James's in a chilling kiss.

James, who was astounded beyond recognition, sat there, shocked, for a few seconds, and before he knew it, he returned the kiss with equal fervor. There was an entire _month_ of wanting to do that bottled up inside of James, and now was the time to let it out. Immediately, James frowned, feeling there wasn't enough being let out in this kiss; he held the back of Willy's head and moved just so the arm of the chair wouldn't be crushing his ribs, and he leaned Willy backwards, also making sure that the arm of the next chair didn't hurt Willy's back _too_ much….

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"And forward he leaps!" James dove downstage dramatically, pretending to hack through nonexistent vines and bushes and looking around just as spectacularly. "Through the treacherous jungle the daring and dashing explorer treks…until he comes across—" he gasped. "—A cliff! Oh, the sight startles the handsome traveler and he falls forward to his grave! He tries to grab on to a rock, anything, but nothing is—"

"James," Willy murmured hazily from the front row of the theater. "I obviously didn't die."

James grinned and stood up straight, jumping off the stage. He looked at Willy, who was wrapped tightly in James's overcoat and a few blankets found backstage, and he had his top hat and sunglasses on again. He wasn't smiling, but that didn't faze James at all. On the contraire, he sauntered up to Willy, placed both hands on the arms of the seat he was in, and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Someone's a wee bit moody."

Willy made a face, but he blushed nonetheless. "I'm not speaking to you."

James rolled his eyes and turned towards the stage, jumping on it again and sitting on the edge. He sighed heavily and watched Willy. "I apparently missed something."

Willy merely shook his head.

The playwright looked down at his knees, raising an eyebrow carefully and trying to remember what could've possibly set Willy off into Moodyland. "Well," he confessed, "since I have no flying clue as to what you're angry at me about, I'm just going to remain a criminal, ay?"

Willy looked up incredulously. "Of _course_ you're a criminal!"

The life in James Barrie apparently was scared out of him at this bloodcurdling revelation. He drew in a sharp intake of air and nearly fell off the stage; so he gripped the edge of it, his knuckles turning white. "C-criminal…?"

"Don't you see what you've _done_, James? You've broken my barrier! The barrier I've kept hidden from everyone else!" Willy threw the blankets off himself and stood up. "You amaze me! You purely amaze me! I was _violated_ not but an hour ago, and you're merely contemplating whether or not you're a _criminal_!"

James grabbed at his own heart, feeling a white-hot pain coursing through his chest cavity. "Willy…I…I d-didn't—"

"Oh, James," Willy groaned, throwing the overcoat off of himself as well. "I was so sure you'd be as good a man as I'd hoped you would be…."

When Willy stumbled out of the theater, James gawked at the ground, frightened at the feeling he was experiencing at the moment. He'd felt it prior to that day; it wasn't a mystery. He'd only felt it once before, yet he could identify it just by the feeling.

His heart was breaking.

* * *

**DUN DUN DUN! ((walks into a wall)) I just...killed it.**


	9. The Helpless Chocolatier

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**'Kay. I'm freaking out because I found THE MOST PERFECTEST SONG for this fic. Ever. EVER. EVVVEEEERRRR! It's called "Wishing Well" and it's by Terence Trent D'Arby. Now, if you know that song (it's an oldie), tell me; IS THAT SONG NOT HOT? It's hot. It's very hot. Not in the Paris Hilton way, either.

* * *

**

Charlie watched in agony as Willy cried, rocking himself back and forth, sitting on Charlie's bed. The younger of the two had never seen his mentor this miserable, and it upset him just to watch. Of course, he didn't really know why Willy was crying; it just pained him to see the amazing chocolatier in such a helpless state. He could only imagine what his friend was going through.

He'd come home from school that day to find his mother sitting in a chair at the table, staring at her hands. His father was at work, and his grandparents were asleep. When Charlie entered the house, he looked around suspiciously at the sight, and he heard dull moans coming from his room. When he'd asked, his mother replied:

"It's Willy, darling. He's…not in a right state."

The news that Willy was sobbing had shocked Charlie, and he'd nearly flown up the ladder and thrown himself around Willy in a role that had recently been reversed. Charlie was once the younger brother; now he seemed to be the older brother.

"Mr. Wonka," he said softly, wringing his hands and trying hard not to cry himself. "Can you please tell me why you're crying?"

Willy made a weak gesture, then pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them. "Why, Charlie?"

Charlie took a deep breath. "Was it Mr. Barrie?"

Willy paused, then nodded.

This greatly alarmed young Charlie Bucket. Wasn't it just the night before that Willy was frantic about getting to James on time? Wasn't it just the night before that Willy refused to make his shoes look better for fear of being late?

A horrifying thought occurred to Charlie just then. "Mr. Wonka," he said softly, his voice shaking, "did Mr. Barrie—"

"No, he kissed me."

Charlie sat back against the wall, staring straight ahead of him. "Was it without your consent?"

Willy let out a sob. "No, but I told him that! I told him that he kissed me without my permission, but in truth…_I_ kissed _him_, and I wanted to, Charlie! I did…!" He still didn't look up from his knees. "I broke his heart, Charlie, I saw it in his face. I hurt the man I love, Charlie, and I don't know WHY!"

Charlie leaned forward a bit and looked through the rafters to see his mother with her face in her hands. Apparently, she was listening to the whole thing. Charlie understood her emotions; Willy, after all, was like a second son to her. In fact, when Charlie leaned back against the wall, he felt something warm slide down his own cheek. He, too, was crying silently.

"You know," Charlie whispered, "I…I would try to apologize to him. He might understand if you explain—"

"I can't face him again, Charlie. I'm scared of him." He looked up, his face stained with tears, and he dropped his voice down to a barely audible whisper. "When I kissed him…I don't know, but everything just…disappeared. Like…it was the best feeling I'd ever had."

"Of course," Charlie said. "It was your first kiss, right?"

Willy nodded. "It was perfect."

Charlie rubbed his forehead, having confirmed the fact that Willy Wonka really _didn't_ make sense at times.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Later that same night, Willy sat alone on the bank of the Chocolate River. He stared at his own blurry reflection on the surface, not sure if the bluriness was because the chocolate was opaque or because he had tears in his eyes. It could have been both. All he knew was that looking down on his own reflection at the moment was like his sanity; it wasn't distinct, yet it was definitely there.

Then, he heard someone slowly walk up beside him and sit down, facing him. Willy knew without looking that it was Mrs. Bucket; he recognized her scent. Willy continued staring into the river, and said quietly:

"None of my names are really mine, you know." He sadly plucked a blade of sugar grass off the ground and nibbled on it. "None of them. Wilbur-Maximilian LaMirage Wonka."

Mrs. Bucket rested her chin in her hand and her elbow on her knee, listening.

"Wilbur is my father's name, obviously…." He glanced at Charlie's mother. "Maximilian was my grandfather's name. LaMirage was my mother's maiden name. Obviously, Wonka is my father's last name." He sucked on the blade of grass for a moment, frowning. "I can't really remember my mother. I remember she was there; I remember her presence. I just can't remember what she looked like. Father never kept any of her photos, and if he did, I couldn't find them. I'm sure she was pretty. Most mothers tend to be pretty. You, for example."

Mrs. Bucket smiled, but kept silent.

"None of my names are my own…." He frowned. "Nothing's mine anymore. My mother isn't my mother anymore because she's …my relationship isn't mine anymore because I destroyed it…." He let a solitary tear fall from his eye. "Nobody loves me anymore."

Mrs. Bucket frowned. "That's absolutely not true, Willy. You have a family that loves you. We might not be your biological family, but we're your family all the same, and we love you very much. Blimey, Willy, you're like a son to me." She smiled. "And I can tell you, it's very strange to have a son who's nearly the same age as I am."

Willy laughed quietly, not looking at Mrs. Bucket.

Mrs. Bucket was silent for a moment, then she spoke in a near whisper. "Willy, I'm going to tell you something that you mustn't tell _anyone_, especially not Charlie."

"Mr. Bucket?"

"He already knows." She looked around to make sure Charlie wasn't there, and she said, "I didn't want Charlie. It was an unexpected pregnancy."

Willy stopped chewing on the sugar grass and stared at Mrs. Bucket.

Charlie's mother continued, however. "All throughout the pregnancy, I wasn't sure when and if I was going to…abort him, or…give him up for adoption. Please don't look at me like that, Willy. The reason was because we barely had enough money to take care of ourselves, let alone a child." She bit her lip. "But when he was born, I looked into his eyes and…I just couldn't give him up. I knew then that…he had done nothing to me, and I knew that…." Mrs. Bucket frowned again. "What I'm trying to say is, when a child is born, you look at them and know that they've done nothing to harm you, and you know that they'll love you for as long as they can. Now, I'm going as far as to say they'll love you _forever_. They do become teenagers."

Willy smiled a little, getting sad again.

Mrs. Bucket sighed. "You know that you'll always love your children, no matter what happens or what they do. They're your own flesh." She rubbed Willy's arm comfortingly. "Your father still loves you, Willy. He was just…never really given a chance to show that because of your mother passing away. But trust me, Willy, dear. He loves you. Give him another chance, and you'll see that he's worthy of your forgiveness."

Willy sat there, silent, finishing off that one blade of sugar grass. He took Mrs. Bucket's hand, and she squeezed it gently. Willy held her hand for a long while; he held the hand of the mother he'd never had.


	10. Apology Not Accepted

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**Hm. This is slowly headed towards the 'Rated M' Category, people. ((WonkaGiggle))

* * *

**

Willy sighed, staring at James, who was playing fetch with his enormous dog in the park the next afternoon. He could never remember the name of the beast; James had talked about it several times when they were…well, they weren't necessarily _together_. Although, they weren't exactly friends, either. Whatever their relationship was called, most of it was spent talking about the dog.

_What is it_, Willy thought, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully at the dog. _Carpathian_?_ Othello_?

"That's it, Porthos. Good boy."

_Or that_.

Suddenly, James looked up, spotting Willy sitting on the bench a few feet away. Of course, he _was_ hard to miss, what with his top hat, sunglasses, needlessly large overcoat, and cane. The playwright sighed and gave the great bear of a dog a loving rub, then stood up.

Willy gasped, hoping James wouldn't come towards him…oh, indeed, he was.

"Why are you here, Willy?" James asked, looking over Willy's top hat and sliding his hands in his pockets. Porthos sniffed at the ground behind him.

Willy looked down at his knees, beginning to fidget (which he'd seemed to have gotten down to a science by then). "I…I wanted to…apologize."

James looked down sharply at him, narrowing his eyes. "'Apologize?' For what?"

"I hurt your feelings."

James sniffed. "Well, it's about time one of us acknowledged that, eh?"

An enormous silence followed, and Willy bit his lip. He wasn't sure how to reply to that; nor was he sure he wanted to. He really didn't know what to say. He wasn't even altogether sure what had happened that night to make him so spastic. Well, besides Willy's first date…first kiss…first—

"Is that all?" James asked, trying very hard to remain polite. Willy was staring at him for a while, and James knew it regardless of the fact that forty percent of his face was completely obscured. "Because I have the strangest feeling that's not all you wanted to talk—"

"Do you forgive me?"

This brought the playwright to a halt rather abruptly. The chocolatier had asked this question in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, and he could hear the equally appalling self-loathing. Willy was spilling crazy tears behind those odd goggles, yet he appeared to be expressionless. Had James known this, things probably would have gone a bit different.

"No."

Willy's jaw nearly fell right off his face just then. "Wh-why?" James was walking away. "Why, James? James…!"

The aforementioned person stopped and said to Willy over his shoulder, "Why, pray tell, should I forgive you? What, pray tell, is there to motivate me to forgive you?" He turned around, and Porthos—sensing anger—walked a few yards down the path and sat, waiting. James, suddenly in an extraordinary livid rage, could hardly be understood past his thickening accent. "You're right, Willy, you hurt my feelings. Wait, a little bit more than that, mate, you broke my heart!"

He jumped down to his knees, startling Willy, and grabbed the man's hands in his own. "Here's the reality for ye'," he said, narrowing his eyes and lowering his voice to a venomous whisper. "I wasn't sure 'bout what happened in that theater, Willy. 'How far does he want to go? Should I wait?'" James almost villainously removed one hand from Willy's hand and held on to the bewildered chocolatier's knee. "'How far is he going to allow me to go?'"

As James was saying this, he was slowly sliding his hand up Willy's thigh, and Willy gasped quietly, grabbing the wandering hand and holding it tightly. He was very aware of what the consequences would be if he had allowed James to continue.

There was a silence. "And yet he didn't tell me to stop," murmured James, indicating that what just happened at that moment was a physical simile. "The only difference…was that I kept going. The only difference was that you _told_ me you wanted it. You told me."

Willy closed his eyes. "You're right," he whispered. "I…I did want it."

"How can I trust that?"

"Please…."

James stood up. "I can't trust that."

The conversation, apparently, was over.

And Willy fell into a painful flashback.

* * *

**'Kay. Heads up, people.**


	11. The Flashback

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!**

**This chapter is NOT for the faint of heart! It is very much rated M, and for a good reason! If you do not like Semi-Explicit Slash, DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER! Wait for the next one!**

**Otherwise, carry on!

* * *

**

Willy wasn't even sure when James got them both up off the floor of the theater, but the next thing he knew, his back was pressed against a wall, and he and James were engaged in a very avid kiss. Two minutes later, Willy had no doubt James was strong, because he had indeed lifted Willy upwards by the waist. The chocolatier held James's face in his hands, wrapping his legs around the other man's waist.

Of course, this was new to Willy, since his gloves were lying haphazardly on the floor next to the rest of his clothes. He took every opportunity to run his hands through James's hair, which was only beginning to stick to his forehead chaotically.

James looked up at Willy, holding him by the waist. He didn't say a word; the question was in his eyes. Willy opened his eyes and looked into James's, running the tips of his fingers over his shoulders softly. He glanced away, his face flushed with fever, and when he looked back, James was grinning.

"I was a step ahead of you, Willy," he whispered, deciphering the worried expression on his partner's face. "You weren't watching."

Willy laughed nervously, but James silenced him once more with a kiss. The playwright's kiss moved down Willy's neck, leaving tiny hot spots in its wake.

"Oh, goodness," Willy murmured, resting his forehead on James's shoulder and cringing as James brushed his tongue almost hungrily over Willy's collarbone. "James, I beg you…to stop teasing me like this…."

"I won't move on until you say it."

"You always manage to bribe m—" He was cut off by James nibbling softly on his ear. "Oh…."

"Say it."

Feeling manipulated in the best way possible, Willy ran his hands down James's back, drawing in a deep breath and feeling his 'captor' tremble slightly. Was this too fast? He would have no way of knowing; he'd never been with anyone before. For all he knew, they were going too slow.

Suddenly, he smiled widely and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I'm ready…I…I want this. I want this. I want you."

Willy must've blacked out for half a second, because the next minute, he was feeling…pain. Lots of pain. He must've expressed his pain because he looked over James's back and saw he was digging his fingernails right into the poor man's shoulder blades.

"It's alright," James whispered, resting his own forehead on the wall over Willy's shoulder. "It's alright, relax."

James tried once more, and Willy leaned backwards onto the wall, whimpering. "You never mentioned pain!" he all but squealed, keeping his nails firmly lodged into James's back.

"I'm sorry," replied James, holding on tighter to Willy's waist. "It's always hurts the first time…."

Willy did a spectacular thing right then. He reached up and covered James's mouth with three fingers, looking at him through half-closed eyes. Silence, and then:

"Lay down."

James was taken slightly aback by this new tone of voice; it was as if Willy had finally shrugged off the veil of shyness and marched himself into the light. It was a new Willy Wonka. It was…vaguely arousing.

Nonetheless, James did what he was told, and Willy lay on top of him, sliding his hands underneath his shoulder blades and kissing the daylights out of him.

"Now," he whispered, brushing a lock of hair out of James's eyes and trailing his fingers down his chest. "Where were we?"

James grinned. "I believe we were…here." He flipped the two of them over so he was on top of Willy. "I don't think so, love, you're the inexperienced one here. Leave the initiating—" he drove himself into Willy once, causing the other man to shut his eyes quickly, "—to me. 'Kay?"

"Enough of the games, James," Willy growled in a very uncharacteristic manner, smirking. He was a changed man for the rest of the night, and this was apparent when he murmured, "Take me, Barrie."

Oh boy, did he.


	12. James's Secret

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**There is a briefly depressing moment here. I'll explain why I put it there to begin with in later chapters, 'kay?

* * *

**

"Why didn't you tell me, Mr. Wonka?"

Willy looked at Charlie, sighing through his nose after telling him (not in detail, of course!) what had happened the night of the date, and a possible reason for why he had freaked out and accused James of violating him. And the reason why James didn't accept his apology.

The two—Willy and Charlie, that is—were on their way to the glass elevator, and as Charlie had already asked why Willy was still wearing the goggles, Willy simply replied with, "Just 'cuz." The truth was because he was afraid his eyes were still red from crying and the brief sob-attack he had just moments before he entered his own factory. He hadn't cried like that in…he couldn't even remember the last time he cried like that.

"I didn't tell you," said Willy, stepping into the already open elevator and stepping aside to let Charlie in, "because I didn't want to scare you."

"Scare me?" Charlie scoffed. "Why would that scare me?"

Willy paused, shutting the elevator doors with a push of a button. "Well, let's see." He turned to Charlie with mock emotions. "Oh, Charlie, I lost my virginity to James, isn't that exciting? Oh, but I'm not excited, in fact, I feel like one of my own squirrels crawled into my body and died, decomposing slowly and agonizingly in the deepest abyss of my guts."

Charlie stared. That _did_ scare him. To hear Willy Wonka say that was like hearing a priest talk casually about how wonderful Hell is.

"See?" Willy pressed the button that would take them to the Balm Room, already thinking of a new flavor of Balm….

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Why are you writing this?"

James stared at his desk, not looking up at Peter and Michael, who were standing in front of him, Peter reading the paper that James had handed him and keeping it out of Michael's reach. For good reason, since the paper had some pretty gory things written on it….

"Mr. Barrie…what's this?"

James raised his gaze to look at what Peter was pointing at. He immediately snatched the paper out of the boy's hands. "It's nothing," he mumbled, stuffing the red-spotted paper into his desk. "Get to bed, boys, I'll be there in a minute."

Peter stayed a bit after Michael ran off to bed, singing loudly and badly and not to mention unintelligibly. It was quite random, and James hid a chuckle. But he kept his eyes on Peter, who watched him, not showing any emotion on his face whatsoever.

"I might be asleep when you get up there, Mr. Barrie."

When Peter left, James rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his face with his hands. What was he doing to himself? He had lost himself completely. He was so sure of things before that night. He was so confident. But just like betting, he gambled his entire life on being with Willy, and because Willy lost, so did he.

James peered through his fingers at the desk, and after a few moments' hesitation, he pulled the paper back out again.

_I'm stuck here all alone_

_I have no one who's there_

_In the darkest times in the shadows_

_Where comes in the rush of cold air_

_Searching for the light_

_Wherever there's dark, it's right here_

_It's not there anymore_

_And here I stand, crazed with fear_

_The deepest desires scorch my soul_

_The ones I've tried not to appease_

_The symptoms I've tried to hide_

_My withdrawal slides in with ease_

_Sinking into the black void_

_Shot out of control, my mind protests_

_I need the light to stop this madness_

_To put my insanity to rest_

_The deepest penetration digs in firm_

_Beneath fires of hell on my skin_

_Rusting the sturdiest metal_

_And corrupting the thoughts within_

_Caged and trapped in solitude_

_I feel like I cannot let go_

_Swirling in my mind are the memories_

_Into which my whole existence flows_

_It's right there where I need it_

_Before thelethal kiss_

_I could not repel I had no control_

_Crashing right into bliss_

_You're captured you're inside my soul_

_It's too late you can't turn back_

_Get away, I need to stop_

_The train has fallen off track_

_My mind is where we found it_

_The heat of the room burns my mind_

_You're my want my need my life_

_You have me in a powerful bind_

_I can't get enough of you_

_You're not with me this is true_

_My heart is you it tears at my nerves_

_I'm not going to pull through_

_It has to hurt it did when we stopped_

_Now it's an addiction of all my fears_

_Its passionate mind has fallen for you_

_Got me living on the verge of tears_

Right under that—James sighed as he looked at it again—was a blood stain. In his hands—James drew in a deep breath as he looked at it again—was the gleaming, sharp culprit.

James put the razor and poem back into his desk, scratching very lightly at the marks on his arm under his sleeve as he got up to tuck the boys in for the night.

* * *

**Before you murdelize me, there IS a reason for all that. By the way, I wrote the poem. No, seriously, I did.**


	13. Hurting

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**This chapter starts out sad, but it has a happy ending. Whee!

* * *

**

"Blood."

Willy briefly looked up from the lab table in the middle of the Balm Room. He nodded. "Some people like that flavor."

Charlie's jaw dropped. "Like who?"

Willy continued writing in the giant recipe book, not looking up at Charlie again. His eyes briefly widened, and he smiled insanely. "Vampires. Pirates." He looked at Charlie, winking, then looked back at the table. "Or just your garden-variety freaks."

There was a pause. "That's disgusting, Mr. Wonka."

"Well, who asked you?"

"I'm your assistant and friend—"

"Then assist with something else, _friend_—"

Charlie ran to Willy, grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, and slammed him against a wall so hard the shelves in the room rattled. There was a new anger and concern flaring up in the boy at the moment, as was apparent in his sudden burst of strength.

Willy gasped, staring at Charlie in horror as he remained pinned to the wall. Several flashbacks flew through his mind with the speed of a bullet. The thoughts dispersed when Charlie spoke quietly.

"Will you listen to yourself?" he hissed. "You're being ridiculous! Blood…this isn't _you_, Wonka!" Charlie looked at the floor briefly, then back up at Willy. "This isn't fair. You're not being fair…just deal with your loss!"

"I can't help it," Willy snarled. "It's not like he didn't matter to me."

"That's fine and dandy, but you're being a…a…you're being a bastard!"

Willy's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm grieving."

Charlie's eyes filled with tears without warning. "Then grieve! Just…stop hurting _me_! You're hurting yourself, and you're hurting me! You don't think I care about you, but I do, Willy; I care about you very much! Just stop…stop doing this to yourself before you end up—"

He stopped, then let go, and Willy caught a glimpse of several tears running down the boy's face before he angrily left the room.

The chocolatier watched him go, rubbing his shoulder where Charlie held him.

Charlie had called him Willy.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"I'm hurting him, James."

The two men on the bench stared at the ground, which was turning into slimy mud right before there eyes because of the heavy rainfall coming down on the both of them. James had the umbrella up, and he could barely hear Willy over the rain; he heard Willy's plea, however.

James frowned. "Of course," he scooted closer to Willy for the sake of being heard. "He loves you."

Willy rubbed his gloved hands together, thinking this over. He gazed at the tree a few feet away from them, and he sighed as the raindrops stripped the last of the leaves off of it. Christmas was coming very soon, and yet there still hasn't been any snow. It was cold, but apparently not cold enough for the thick rain to be thick snow.

"I never meant to hurt him," said Willy, finally looking over at James's profile, still rubbing his hands together idly.

James raised his eyebrows and looked absent-mindedly at Willy. Their eyes met, and suddenly the cuts on James's arm started to itch. He scratched them, and Willy glanced at the arm.

"You've done it too," Willy observed. He swallowed. "Why are we not talking?"

"We _are_ talking." James offered a small smile. "We've been talking for the last few minutes."

Willy looked straight ahead again, and James sighed.

"Willy?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened with us?"

There was a slight pause. "We're scared."

The playwright shifted. "Scared…."

"I'm scared of you," Willy said, looking sharply at James. "That night…I…I felt wanted. It was the best feeling in the universe…and that scares me."

James's eyes reddened. "It scared you too, eh?"

"I can't stand that I hurt you, James."

The rain lightened a little, and James shook the umbrella. "I know."

"I know why you didn't forgive me—"

"No, you really don't." James raised his eyebrows again, looking at the man on his right. "You think it's because I despise you."

Willy bit his lip, hanging his head.

"But it's because I love you."

Willy suddenly felt James's hand on his own, and he laced his fingers through his, still staring at the ground. He felt his head being turned towards James, and the gap was closed, engaging the two in a gentle kiss.

James pulled away first, and he looked into Willy's eyes, stroking his cheek soothingly with his thumb. "I forgive you, but only if you can forgive me," he whispered as the rain dispersed mysteriously.

Willy nodded. "I do. I forgive you, and I'm sorry, and—"

James kissed Willy again, pulling the two closer together. When they pulled away, James was holding Willy around the waist, the fingers of his other hand still laced with his own. "Shh," he murmured. "I know."

There was a silence, then Willy smiled. He whispered in a nearly inaudible voice as he fiddled nonchalantly with James's collar, "I love you."

James rested his forehead on Willy's, and the two shared a silent, intimate moment, just holding each other on the bench until the very last leaf at the top of the tree fell off, having decided to join the rest in the rain-soaked pile on the ground.

* * *

**No, this is _not_ the end of the story. So keep yer horses on. Or something.**


	14. Christmas Eve

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**This chapter is LONG. The holiday chapters are going to be sort of long. Just letting you know. I had to change a HUGE chunk of this chapter for undisclosed reasons. It's pretty obvious, anyway. ((sigh))

* * *

**

The day before Christmas was very busy for everyone. Charles Frohman had taken the Llewellyn-Davies' out to do some last-minute shopping while Willy invited James for dinner at the factory, marking the first time James would ever set foot inside the marvelous Chocolate Factory. Not only was the dinner to celebrate that; it was officially Willy and James's fourth-month anniversary.

"So romantic!" Mrs. Bucket had gushed when Willy announced he'd invited everyone to dinner in a special occasion, meaning it wouldn't be the Buckets' dinner, but his. This also explained why he wasn't doing this dinner on Christmas Day, but Christmas Eve. There were other reasons.

Willy had a special Christmas Day planned out.

"Let me get my coat," said James after opening the door to his own house to find Willy standing there, looking actually quite dark contrasted against the snow. His bright white teeth didn't assist the matter any, since he was smiling excitedly.

James put on his coat, went to the door, and drew in a sharp breath, getting a good look at Willy. "You're…."

Willy grinned wider, if possible, and spread his arms wide, turning once. "I feel spiffy."

The ruckus was over the fact that Willy wasn't wearing his top hat, nor was he wearing his goggles. On the contraire, he was wearing a normal business suit—considering how 'normal' was defined in Willy Wonka's dictionary. He had black pants on, a black blazer, and under that, he was wearing a deep violet vest overtop a golden-yellow dress shirt. He was even wearing a royal purple bolero tie. Overtop all that, he still had the large red overcoat. Black, shiny tuxedo shoes and all, Willy looked _sharp_.

James gaped. "You…." He shut the door behind him. "You're going to create a flood; you're melting all the snow."

Willy giggled and held his arm out for James to take. James kissed him on the cheek before hooking his arm through the chocolatier's.

The two walked to the factory, talking and laughing, and once they got to the front gates, James stopped and stared.

"It's amazing," he murmured.

Willy grinned. "You think the _outside's_ pretty." He tilted his head forehead forward slightly, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he ushered James to a secluded area right beside the main gates. "Wait 'til you see the _inside_."

James smirked, having understood the double meaning behind that statement. He looked Willy over once more, and Willy lifted a finger. That's when James noticed Willy was wearing black vinyl gloves.

"Tonight," he murmured, drawing attention to the setting sun in the distance, then back to his index finger, "is Christmas Eve. You get a few wrapped presents…." He drew his hand into a loose fist, smirking in a seductive manner, and his face inches away from James's. "…and a specially wrapped one." He held his cane in front of him, using both hands to lean on it. He slowly raised an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer this special gift to be…_un_wrapped."

James shut his eyes briefly and exhaled heavily, already feeling lightheaded. He opened his eyes and smirked, starting to feel a bit drunk off the chocolatier's words. "How dare you," he said in a murmur. "You're trying to turn me on before I even get into the factory."

"Oh, but at that point, you will _be_ the factory."

"Willy…" James warned, wagging a finger in Willy's face. He didn't have time to _think_ before Willy did the unthinkable:

He leaned forward and kissed James's finger, causing the playwright to gasp sharply. Just when he was about to pull away, Willy chuckled sexily and wrapped his arms around the other man, pushing James's finger _into_ his mouth.

James nearly dissolved right then and there. He remained warmly in Willy's arms as Willy scandalously treated his finger as if it were a Popsicle.

"Willy," James groaned, feeling weak already as Willy slid his finger out of his mouth and kissed it once more.

James couldn't just stand there and do nothing; he caught Willy in a kiss, wrapping his arms around Willy's neck as the somewhat shorter man stood to some extent on his tiptoes, pressing his body tightly against the other. James gave Willy's neck a love bite, satisfied with the low growls he could feel coming from Willy's throat.

Willy pulled away, and after his vision cleared, he murmured, "Happy Christmas Eve."

They took five minutes to regain their composure, then entered the factory, James not even realizing nor caring that he had given his lover a noticeable hickey. Instead, his attention was drawn to the amazing Chocolate Field that he was currently walking across.

"This is amazing," James said in awe, turning his head to get a better view of the room.

"Of course," Willy piped, jumping into his memory of the tour so long ago. "Everything in this room is eatable. Even _I'm_ eatable, but that—" He grinned wickedly and flushed a bright pink. "That is not to be discussed at the moment."

James cleared his throat, looking away. After a nonchalant glance downwards, he quickly pretended he was cold and buttoned his long overcoat, coughing sheepishly.

They stopped in front of a small, ramshackle house sitting in the middle of the room, and Willy knocked briskly on the door twice. He stared indifferently at the door, yet said in a low whisper to James, "I would take care of that if I were you."

James blushed, shifting nervously. "It's not like it's my fault, is it?"

There was a comical silence as Willy frowned, thinking that over.

"I could say something to that, but I'm choosing not to."

Good thing, because just then Mrs. Bucket opened the door, saw Willy, and announced to the Buckets that they were supposed to _leave_ now.

James smiled warmly as Mrs. Bucket turned back to the couple. "You must be Mrs. Bucket," James said, taking her hand and politely kissing the top of it. This earned a suspicious look from Willy, but the playwright dismissed it, knowing Willy was just being paranoid. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

Mrs. Bucket smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Barrie."

"Call me James, please."

Soon, all the Buckets were gathered up, and Willy led the way, leaving James to introduce himself to the other members of the family.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Even Charlie had to admit that he was stunned by the factory dining hall. It was probably as large as the Chocolate Field, and it had a long, oval table running down its length. The table was made of a royal violet glass, and the edge around the table was a shiny, freshly-polished gold. The table was extraordinary in appearance; however, there was _one_ thing in particular that was so astounding about it.

It seemed to be floating in midair.

"How on Earth," Grandma Georgina asked quietly as the group sort of stopped, trying to figure out where the legs of the table were. Willy, however, walked to the table and placed one hand on it, grinning proudly.

"Magnets," he said simply.

"But," Charlie interjected, "wouldn't all the silverware get stuck to the magnets?"

Willy beamed. "Ah, but my dear Charlie, these magnets only attract _gold_. I came up with the type of magnet that will only attract gold, and I can control the strength of the magnet. Watch," he said brightly, and he strode over to a crystal dial that looked like a doorknob installed into the wall. He looked at the table and slowly turned the knob.

Everyone gasped as the table lifted into the air gradually, and when Willy turned the knob the other way, it lowered towards the ground. When he set it at its original position, Willy looked happily over at the group. He caught James's eye and winked like he had a secret; something magnificent he was hiding somewhere up his sleeve.

James averted his gaze, smiling, still awed by this genius he'd fallen in love with. However, he had the feeling that wasn't all he was going to find ingenious about him. The factory was huge, and this was just the second room he'd been in so far. Who knows what other amazing rooms Willy had in store?

Like...his bedroom, for instance.

"Now," Willy said slyly, leaning on his cane towards the group in front of him. "Pick a seat. Anywhere. I don't mind." He looked sharply over to the only purple chair in the entire room. "Except that one. Any chair but that one."

James chuckled, shaking his head as the Buckets gathered at one of the sides and sat down in the metallic-y yellow dining chairs that matched the purple one except for color. They talked amongst themselves about the amazing room and table while James sidled over to Willy.

"This is amazing," he murmured, looking at the table.

Willy smiled. "I haven't shown you the best part," he whispered, and James only had time to catch the roguish sparkle in his lover's eye before heading towards the purple chair, motioning for him to follow.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Willy sat back in his chair, watching everyone as they finished up the last of their desserts. He looked at James, then at the table, where there was an odd-shaped bottle sitting near his own plate. He narrowed his eyes and smiled at the bottle, identifying what it was by the plain yet cleverly designed cylindrical shape. Melted chocolate...

Willy glanced once more at James before inconspicuously taking the bottle and slipping it into the pocket of his overcoat, which he'd hung over his chair earlier. He looked around innocently and saw that Charlie was watching him the entire time. Willy merely smiled and placed an index finger on his own lips, telling him that what they boy had seen was, for the time being, between the two of them. Even as Charlie watched him and nodded that he'd stay quiet, Willy reached around and grabbed a bottle of Chocolate Wine that he kept taped to the bottom of his chair. He slipped that into the inside pocket of his coat, and was satisfied to know Charlie saw none of that.

Already feeling giddy, Willy looked around at everyone else, who was finished with their last bits of whatever they had for dessert, and he stood up.

"I assume you all know your way back to the Chocolate Field?"

The Buckets nodded, slightly pink with fulfillment about their lovely Christmas Eve dinner.

"Well, I believe we have some time for the pre-Christmas gift opening, what do you think, James?"

James looked around at him, apparently having zoned out. "Ay? Oh…yes. Of course! Presents are very important."

"Only a few presents for each," Willy said as the Buckets made their way out of the dining hall. "You don't want to open the _big_ gifts until Christmas, right?"

James lagged behind the group with Willy.

"I don't understand," James murmured quietly, taking the Candyman's hand in his own. "You're very secretive today."

Willy leaned and said into James's ear, "Would you like to stay the night?"

James rested his head on Willy's shoulder as they made their way lazily to the Chocolate Field. "I don't think I can, Willy," he frowned slightly. "The boys…."

"You remember my Oompa-Loompas?"

James nodded, remembering the tiny people they all were being served by.

"They can bring them here. Do you trust them?"

"If you do."

"That settles it, then."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Thanks for the book, Mr. Barrie," Charlie said gratefully, clutching his signed copy of _Peter Pan_, which he'd asked for around the time he first met him. "It means a lot."

James smiled, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately. "You're welcome, Charlie."

Willy watched from afar, having whispered to James that after he was done with the presents, he wanted to see him. The mysterious behavior of Willy only slightly concerned James, but not too much; it was rather apparent as to what Willy was thinking about, but the only question was…how? This seemed to be a bit more ceremonious than that time in the theater….

James stood up and bade the Buckets good-night, then walked over to Willy, who was standing in the shadows near the Chocolate Fall. He stood in front of the incredibly smart chocolatier, watching with him as the Buckets disappeared into their decrepit house.

It was now dark in the Chocolate Field, and Willy grinned at James. "I want to show you something." He ran a hand lovingly through James's hair for a moment. "And I want to give you your pre-Christmas present." He wrapped his arms around the playwright's waist, whispering into his ear, "You very much deserve this."

Willy retreated and took his hand, leading him to a glass elevator that was waiting for them a few feet away.

Willy explained what the elevator could do, and after holding James tightly in his arms, he reached behind himself and over his head, feeling around for that hidden button…he felt it and pressed it.

The elevator didn't move immediately; in fact, it did something else that was extraordinary. The minute Willy pressed the button, little lights of every color of the spectrum swirled and spiraled from the button inside the sheets of glass that made up the elevator. The lights, at first, just made random swirl designs, then, right in front of them, it made a sparkling rainbow-colored question mark.

"Master bedroom," Willy declared, apparently speaking to some kind of voice-activation system.

Just when James was about to close his eyes, the lights made four different color blocks in a row in front of them. One was yellow, one was purple, one was black, and the other was white.

Willy's mouth was next to James's ear again. "You chose," he whispered.

James, who was silently bewildered about this entire thing, realized he was still alive, and he cleared his throat. "Erm…there are different colors of bedrooms?"

Willy just smirked, not wanting to set off the activation before James decided.

However, their pause must've set off an automatic activation, because the blocks disappeared and were soon replaced with four other blocks of colors.

"Oh," Willy murmured in a semi-seductive manner, and Willy himself briefly remembered using this tone of voice when explaining the Oompa-Loompas to his Golden Ticket winners so long ago. "It seems we've moved on to the Biorooms." He laughed a short, comical laugh.

"Biorooms?"

"The green one's a rainforest," Willy explained, still holding James close to him. "The red one's a volcano. The blue one's an ocean." He raised his eyebrows. "Or a beach, if you prefer." He giggled. "And the black one is a wild card. You go there, say what you want, and you're almost there."

James's head was reeling. "Wild card," he managed to utter.

Willy's grin grew wider, and he said in a finalizing tone that nearly brought James to his knees, "I do believe James Barrie wants to play a wild card."

The lights exploded into fireworks of glittering color, then disappeared. The elevator shot away without warning, and Willy had to keep a firm hold on James to keep him from falling.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Why do you cut, James?"

James looked at Willy, who was sleepily leaning against his chest in the Wild Card Bioroom. It was currently leaving them atop a Gothic Cathedral in Rome, Italy, with the full moon beaming softly down on them. They were wrapped in a few warm blankets, keeping out the realistic cold of the winter night air. Even though they were leaning against each other, the two were slightly cold.

James sighed and leaned his cheek on the top of Willy's head. "I don't know."

Willy stayed silent, snuggling against James even more.

"I guess," James murmured, staring into the moon, "that ever since I was younger, since my mother never really cared about me…."

"I know how that is."

The only thing that broke the lovely silence between the two then were the sounds of Rome below them.

"Willy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Willy looked up at James, who was still gazing at the moon. He smiled drowsily. "You're welcome."

James, of course, was referring to the pre-Christmas gift of play; they each drank a bit of the Chocolate Wine, which warmed them immediately against the winter air. Willy asked James if he could tell him a story. Any story, he'd said, as long as he'd get to hear James's voice. Of course, the storyteller obliged, feeling very happy that he'd be able to tell his love a story. In the middle of the story, though, Willy went through a burst of energy and smudged a bit of the melted chocolate on James's cheek. Instead of getting irate, James had laughed and allowed Willy to kiss the chocolate off before continuing.

There they were, after James finished the story, and Willy was almost asleep in his arms.

"Tomorrow," Willy yawned into James's coat, "will be even better."

James smiled. "I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

**Now we get into the story. ((coughchokewheezedie))**


	15. Christmas Day

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**Not enough time to explain. Good chapter. Very good chapter. Love.

* * *

**

Willy's actual bedroom was purple, as James realized when he opened his eyes to the rising sun glaring him in the face. This did not come as a surprise. Willy's favorite color was, as it seemed, purple.

The room wasn't as big as he'd imagined it to be; it was a pretty decent-sized room, with a queen-sized bed, of course. The sheets were soft, and the thick blanket was of the softest and warmest velvet.

Grinning tiredly, James looked down to see Willy sleeping on top of him, his head resting on his chest. He looked peaceful, and he even had a tiny smile on his face. James softly rubbed the red mark on his partner's neck, and after a few moments, he felt a shudder.

Willy opened his eyes and looked up at James. He broke into a smile. "Good morning," he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

James chuckled. "It's Christmas."

Willy looked over at the lavender clock on the wall above their heads. "Oh, gosh-darnit. We're going to miss the present-opening."

"It's alright," James said warmly, rubbing Willy's back with one hand while he folded the other one behind his head. "I'm sure they realize why we've gone missing."

The silence was sweet; they sighed and yawned, and then James said, "Actually, I think we can still catch the present-opening if we hurry."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Well, it's about time you two sleepy-headed lovebirds got down here," Mrs. Bucket muttered hurriedly to the couple as they staggered their way down to the Chocolate Field. "We were nearly going to come look for you!"

Willy choked, and James hit him on the back to open the airway again.

Mrs. Bucket looked at the floor, then her eye twitched. "Or perhaps that wouldn't have been…." She shook her head. "Anyway! Charlie mentioned that you, Willy, have a special announcement to make, and we were dying with the anticipation."

When Willy choked again, James patted him quizzically on the back this time. Announcement? Why hadn't he been informed?

"Right," Willy said, standing up straight and dusting his velvet bathrobe off and clearing his throat. "I'll be right back."

As Willy strode away, poor James was left standing in front of Mrs. Bucket, staring at her as if he really had no idea of what was going on. Mrs. Bucket had the same look on her face.

"Hey, look!"

Charlie's exclamation from the door of the Bucket house caught James's utmost attention, and he whirled around to look at the direction that the young boy was pointing to.

"Oh my…."

Standing in the furthest corner of the Chocolate Field, seemingly hidden until that very moment, stood an enormous, beautiful Christmas tree; the most attractive tree James had ever set eyes on. It was so tall that the very tip of the star seemed to poke a hole through the ceiling; the ornaments, garland, and tinsel shone so much that James was alarmed that he didn't see this when he first came into the Chocolate Field. The presents underneath the tree were wrapped in what seemed like Wonka Bar wrappers; the ribbons were actually not ribbons, but velvety multi-colored rope.

"That is…a beautiful tree," James murmured, taking in the faint scent of pine that vaguely overrode the aroma of the Chocolate River. "When did—"

"I'm not sure," Mrs. Bucket sighed, looking at the tree. "Maybe the Oompa-Loompas did it. Willy was with you all last night, wasn't he?"

James turned slightly pink. "Ay, he was. At least, I assume he was…." He dropped his voice so he was half talking to himself. "We _did_ go to sleep, you know."

Mrs. Bucket hid a grin.

"Who d'you think all those gifts are for?" Charlie asked, carefully stepping on the edge of the Chocolate River so he could get a better look at them. "They're wrapped in Wonka wrappers!"

"I don't know, Charlie…it's a shame your father had to go to work on Christmas Day…we should save his presents for later when he comes home."

Charlie nodded.

Just that moment, Willy came waltzing back to the group, brandishing…a Wonka Bar.

"Here it is!" Willy chirped, handing James the candy. "There's your Christmas present!"

James, being the polite man he was, stared at the gift. He raised an eyebrow. "Thank you, love…for the…Wonka Bar…."

Willy bit his lip. "Uh, actually, that's not all."

"Really," James asked, looking up at the Candy Man in bewilderment.

Willy stood there for a second, then he nodded and motioned for everyone to get inside the Bucket house. When they were all inside, Willy cleared his throat. "Alright," he said. "This is Christmas Morning. With a capital 'M'. Therefore, you all get to go out there—" he pointed towards the outside, "—and get your presents."

And so they did.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Thank you so much for all the gifts, Mr. Wonka," Charlie said, carrying his new chemistry set up the ladder and into his room.

"You're welcome, but don't disappear yet!" Willy called after him. "James needs to…eat his candy bar."

James raised an eyebrow again. "Is it necessary?"

Willy beamed at him. "Yes, it is. In fact, it's _very_ important that you eat the candy because…it's _good_."

Charlie jumped down the last few rungs and walked over to his grandparents and mother, all by and in the bed. He watched Willy with interest.

James took the candy bar out of his pocket.

"Oh, dear!" Willy exclaimed all of a sudden, lunging at the Wonka Bar. "Is it melted? We don't want it to melt!"

This puzzled James beyond comprehension. Willy had a propensity to overreact when it came to his candy, but this was ridiculous. Of course, James had silently expected a little more than a candy bar from his lover; he watched Charlie and his family open the amazing gifts from the chocolatier, mutely wishing he had gotten something a little better. However, Willy was currently—at least, this is what seemed to be—trying to make the present seem much better than it really was by treating it like a semi-precious metal.

"You're gonna like this," Willy whispered to James, feeling around the candy bar to make sure it hadn't melted yet. "Trust me."

At that moment, James wanted to make an uncharacteristically snide remark, but upon realizing his attitude was coming from worry about the boys (which he was informed that Charles had stayed in his house, watching over them), his demeanor softened.

"So, you want me to…eat it, then?"

Willy nodded vigorously.

The playwright sighed, and while everyone was watching him, he tore open the wrapper, then unwrapped the foil. He was about to break off a piece of the candy when he caught sight of the bar itself. His eyes widened.

Willy tugged on his gloves with his teeth anxiously. He stared at James, watching for a reaction.

James slowly looked up at Willy, who giggled nervously, then he looked at the Buckets, who were leaning towards him with anticipation. They didn't know any better than he did…until that minute.

"Well," Willy stammered, breaking the vastly uncomfortable silence. "N-now you see why I d-didn't want it to…melt."

As James looked down at the candy bar again, he turned very pale. "I…I…."

"For goodness' sake," Mrs. Bucket grunted, "what is it?"

Grandpa Joe waved his hands. "Well? What's the ruckus about?"

Still gaping at Willy, James turned the candy bar so the Buckets could get a good look at it. They all gasped, and Mrs. Bucket nearly shrieked.

On the candy bar, instead of the usual "Wonka," was a different word. Actually, it was four words. Four words that could either cause great disturbance or high quantities of happiness. That candy bar was special.

It said, "Will You Marry Me?"


	16. Irreversible Actions

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Nothing. Not even the pebbles on the ground these people walk on. Not mine. Nope.**

**So I may actually continue this. Not sure. I wrote the next chapter to help myself think a little more about it. I know it's short.**

* * *

The only sounds in the room were anxious breathing and Willy's gloves squeaking uncomfortably beneath the sleeves of his soft night robe. The longer the silence went on, the more Willy realized what was happening. He was a few seconds too late. 

"James—"

James dropped the bar and looked frantically at Willy as it shattered. "I can't…" he spluttered. "I…have to go…the boys…."

Mrs. Bucket faintly murmured, "No!" right before the disheveled playwright hastily made his way past Willy and out of the Bucket house. By the time Willy thought of going after him, James was probably already out of the factory.

The factory doors echoed disastrously across the entire building, and when the sound was over, every Bucket in the entire vicinity plus Willy was left staring at the crooked door, standing ajar and reminding the chocolatier of every waking moment since meeting James until that point that he tried not to let his heart's floodgates burst open….

Willy carefully looked down at the broken, forgotten chocolate bar, and his vision became blurry with tears.

Because it was broken, the cracked pieces together read, "Will You Maim Me?"

For the first time since he was a child on his own, Willy Wonka felt horrendously vulnerable and alone.

There was no shame in what Charlie did next; he carefully walked up to his mentor, sidestepping the broken bar, and held his hand. Willy held tight and cried, not looking away from the door the love of his life had used to escape from him….

To _escape_ from him.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

James hadn't made it to his home before breaking down. He stopped at an all-too-familiar park bench and nearly fell onto it, emitting deep sobs and feeling as if he could die. _He'd_ made the mistake this time. He was the one who _really_ caused pain this time. His actions couldn't be reversed….

There was fresh snow on the bench when James had collapsed onto it. He buried his face in it, not caring how cold it was or how stupid _he_ was at the moment. He didn't know why he couldn't say yes….

James didn't want to think. He didn't want to feel…he didn't want to be.

He would forever remember the Christmas when a little part of Neverland died.


End file.
